Chapter 8
The Contract Terms Are Set – All Business
Narrator: Dr. Lillian "Lily" Quinn
I've spent most of my adult life in control.
Of my time. Of my space. Of my grief.
That's what academia taught me. You can't control the past, but you can dissect it, contain it, place it behind museum glass and call it history. You can preserve what's broken. You can name your pain and file it in climate-controlled rooms where it can't touch you anymore.
That's why I became a preservationist.
Because when everything burned, I needed something that didn't.
And this thing with Eli the fake marriage, the reconstruction mission, the shared roof and whispered silences and one terrible kiss that I couldn't forget I needed to put it in a box too.
So I made a contract.
Because if I couldn't control my heart, at least I could control the rules.
I printed it on university letterhead, just to remind him and myself that I came to this arrangement as a professional.
Subject: Temporary Marital Partnership Terms
Duration: 12 months
Cohabitation Clause: Separate bedrooms, separate bathrooms when possible. Shared kitchen allowed under mutual courtesy agreement.
Emotional Clause: No romantic or physical involvement. No gestures that might be interpreted by the public or one another as signs of affection unless necessary for appearances.
Public Presentation Clause: Unified front at press events, town functions, and contractor meetings.
Conflict Clause: All disagreements related to project matters will be resolved via scheduled weekly business meetings or third-party mediation.
Exit Clause: Early termination allowed only under mutual agreement or breach of contract.
I signed it. Dated it.
Then marched into his office and dropped it on the desk.
He looked up from a folder labeled Structural Modifications – Phase II and blinked at the document.
"What's this?" he asked.
"Terms," I said.
"For what? The job?"
"For the marriage."
His brows drew together.
"I thought the terms were clear: temporary, professional, zero intimacy."
"Now they're clearer."
He flipped through it, reading in silence, his eyes scanning each line like it might explode. When he got to the emotional clause, he gave a low, humorless laugh.
"This is real?"
"I don't do blurred lines."
He closed the folder and leaned back in his chair.
"And what happens if I breach the public affection clause? Do I lose couch privileges?"
"You lose the illusion of control."
He studied me for a long time. Too long.
"Lily," he said slowly, "are you trying to protect yourself from me, or from yourself?"
That hit harder than I wanted it to.
"I'm protecting the project," I snapped.
He didn't press. Just nodded, signed the bottom, and slid the folder back toward me.
"Fine. No blurred lines."
I wanted him to argue.
I wanted him to say something sharp. Something real.
But he didn't.
And that was worse.
We established weekly meetings on Monday mornings, 8:00 a.m. sharp. Eli always arrived two minutes late with coffee and a silent dog trailing behind him.
We sat on opposite sides of the conference table. Laptop between us. Agendas printed. Voices even. Every conversation began and ended with "status update."
We reviewed structural progress, historical integrity guidelines, supply delivery errors, budget allocations. We debated mildly about tile color, grant usage, ADA compliance modifications. But never about the kiss.
We didn't talk about that.
We didn't talk about anything that wasn't in the binder.
That was the deal.
At night, I could hear him sometimes through the wall. Not full words, just low movements his footsteps, the creak of his bedframe, the opening and closing of drawers.
He moved like a soldier even in sleep. Quiet. Deliberate. On guard.
I wondered if he ever dreamed about the mission. If he ever woke up still tasting ash.
I knew I did.
I still saw Luke's face in my sleep sometimes smiling, alive, safe.
Before.
And sometimes when I woke, I forgot where I was. For half a breath, I'd reach for him. Then I'd remember. And the remembering was always worse than the forgetting.
I'd thought those dreams were behind me.
But lately, they'd started to change.
Now when I woke, it wasn't Luke's voice I heard in the dream.
It was Eli's.
And that terrified me.
I found a new letter from Luke a few days later.
It had slipped between the folds of an old university textbook one I hadn't opened in years, but had packed anyway, because it made me feel anchored.
The letter wasn't long. It wasn't even particularly eloquent. But it was dated just two weeks before the fire.
Lils,
If something ever happens, you better not waste your life haunting mine. Don't stay angry forever. Not at the people who made hard choices. That includes Eli. He was just trying to protect everyone.
Live. That's the only thing I ever really wanted for you.
Love you, always Luke.
I read it four times.
Then I folded it and put it in my desk drawer, face-down, like it burned.
Because if I read it again, I'd have to admit something I wasn't ready for:
That Luke had forgiven Eli before he even needed to.
And I hadn't.
Not really.
Not until now.
At our next meeting, Eli noticed the coffee was missing.
"Thought you always made two cups," he said.
"Didn't know you were coming."
"It's Monday."
"I thought you might quit."
He tilted his head. "Why would I quit?"
I gestured to the thick contract binder. "Because I've essentially turned this marriage into a military treaty."
He studied me again, with that frustrating stillness he always carried like he was measuring me for armor or for weakness. I could never tell which.
"Is that what you think this is?" he asked.
"Isn't it?"
"No," he said. "It's something we're surviving. Which, for the record, I'm good at."
"Surviving isn't the same as living."
He nodded slowly. "No. But it's how it starts."
That made something tighten in my throat.
I looked down. Focused on the spreadsheet. Pointed to the week's supply request log.
"Fourteen gallons of paint," I said. "Two pallets of brick. And a replacement door for the west wing entrance."
"Noted," he said.
We didn't say another word for the rest of the meeting.
But when I left the room, there were two cups of coffee on the table.
Mine was still warm.
That night, I took a walk through the unfinished west wing. The windows had no glass yet, so the wind blew through in gentle waves, carrying the scent of pine and old memories.
I stopped in what used to be the reception parlor.
It was there I saw Eli.
He didn't notice me at first. He stood with his back to me, his hand on the old fireplace mantel, breathing slow and heavy.
His shoulders were rigid. His jaw clenched. He looked like someone trying not to break.
"Eli?" I said quietly.
He turned, too fast. His eyes widened, but only for a second.
"I didn't mean to interrupt," I said.
He shook his head. "It's fine."
I stepped closer. "What are you doing in here?"
He hesitated. "Luke used to say this room felt like the heart of the place. Like everything else radiated out from here."
I nodded. "He told me that too."
"I think he meant it. About this place. About rebuilding."
"He did."
Silence.
Then he said, so softly I almost missed it: "Do you still hate me?"
It was a sharp, honest question.
I wanted to say yes. Wanted to cling to it.
But I couldn't.
"No," I said. "I don't."
He swallowed. "Thank you."
And then, because the truth was too close, I turned and walked away.
But later, alone in my room, I opened my contract binder.
And I crossed out Clause Three: No Emotional Involvement.
Because maybe it was too late.
And maybe I didn't want the rules anymore.